His
by jowjubeat
Summary: "Kratos looked, disgusted, at the sleeping boy in front of him. He laid, sprawled, his limbs spread out as far as they could go; His gaping mouth produced thunderous snores that racked his body and echoed through the small room of the inn. His hair was disheveled; it flopped about with no intended direction – it reminded Kratos of weeds. Brown weeds." Father son fluff. One shot.


Kratos looked, disgusted, at the sleeping boy in front of him

He laid, sprawled, his limbs spread out as far as they could go; His mouth, gaping open produced thunderous snores racked his body and echoed through the small room of the inn. His hair was disheveled; it flopped about with no intended direction – it reminded Kratos of weeds. Brown weeds. A dribble of snivel was hanging from his nose, and the youth reached up unconsciously in his sleep and wiped it away. Kratos cringed, Smacking his lips, the youth then rolled over to his side, continuing with his outrageous, unharmonious snores emerging from that orifice he called a mouth. That thing, with that mouth, was his. Disgusting.

Earlier that mouth had slopped food almost as soon as the boy snatched it up– Kratos wondered if he could even _taste_ the food at the pace he was going. Small flecks of food flew furiously about as the youth hurriedly consumed his food. Kratos stared in horror before his face melted to his usual scowl – the boy did not see. The youth had taken most of the food remaining on the table, leaving only a few bright red tomatoes. Kratos grimaced as the professor pushed one in front of him, urging him to eat. Not that he could taste the tomatoes anymore, but still, the very sight of them brought back an unpleasant taste to Kratos' mouth that usually remained the rest of the day. Kratos stared bitterly at the youth, who was inhaling some sort of meat, unaware of Kratos' own misery. Kratos noticed that his hands were covered with some sort of sticky substance that had come from one of the entrees. That child, with the sticky hands, was his. Demeaning.

Earlier those hands attempted to solve a simple math problem given by the professor. Kratos watched as the boy's features furrowed in frustration. He watched as his impatiently hit his pencil against the desk. He whined and glared, but still the professor would not relinquish her task. Kratos writhed with discomfiture, disappointment, and disgust as the boy awkwardly tried to solve the problem, and then got it wrong, but handed it to the teacher, beaming like a moron. That oaf, with the wrong math answers, was his. Disappointing.

Kratos took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. Disgusting, demeaning, disappointing. How could such a dim-witted, sloppy, naive boy be his? He let his breath out, and dropped his arms to waist. He stared at the youth's sleeping face.

Earlier that face had given Kratos a smile during training. Kratos let out an impatient sigh as the boy stooped to pick up the weapons that he had just dropped due to Kratos' attack, yet he was smiling. Kratos warmed him to stay on guard, watch his footwork – the youth rolled his eyes and gave a retort, one that Kratos chose to ignore. The practice continued – as did the faulty footwork, the improper handling of the blade, and the retorts. Kratos shook his head – perhaps it was useless. But, just as Kratos was leaving, he glanced behind him to see the boy reviewing the steps, the thrusts, the strokes, Kratos had taught him earlier just that day. He couldn't help but smile, though he was sure the lad would tire himself out. That reckless creature, with blistered hands, was his.

And that he did. An hour later, the youth came stumbling into the inn, completely unaware that he was tracking sand from the heated desert outside. His face was red, sunburned. Kratos closed his eyes in annoyance – the boy never takes care of himself. Kratos watched from the corner of his eye as the boy flopped on the bed, and passed out within minutes, which was where Kratos was watching him now.

Still on his side, the boy let out an unusually cacophonous snort. He mumbled and turned again, his weeds still hanging about his face, his mouth still gaping open, his hands calloused and blistered from the day's practice. Rewarding.

Kratos sighed. It didn't matter what he told himself. He could search for the boy's flaws for the rest of his millennia, he could scowl and disapprove, he could glower and reprimand, it didn't matter; no matter what he did, he would always be proud of Lloyd. Proud of his determination, his optimism, his devotion.

Lloyd let out another raucous rumble of a snore and flopped on his back once more. Rather than scowling, Kratos let himself smile for a brief moment. He let out another sigh and shook his head to himself, still smiling.

"Don't die, Lloyd." He whispered into the dark. But Lloyd did not hear; he was far away, dreaming of stars, and the man who raised him up on his shoulders to see them


End file.
